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You're scared of what you can't control

Becca Fitzpatrick

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Becca Fitzpatrick
Age: 45
Born: 1979
Born: February 3
Author
Novelist
Writer
Centerville
Utah
Control
Scared

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His smile was sexy and warned of trouble, but I'd made up my mind that not all trouble was bad.
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She cleans a toilet inside and out under a minute. More like terrifying
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Keep in mind that people change, but the past doesn't.
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...Good, because I need your help. Help is my middle name. I was pretty sure she'd already told me bad was her middle name, but I kept my opinion to myself.
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The sensible part of me wanted to dissect my emotions, overthinking and overcomplicating my reaction to Jev.
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Maybe Scotty the Potty turned into Scotty the Hottie. Have you thought about that?
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What I really wanted was the impossible.
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Patch stood over me, and a drop of rain slid from his hair, landing like ice on my collarbone. I felt it slide along my skin, disappearing beneath the neckline of my shirt. His eyes followed the raindrop, and I began to quiver on the inside.
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I can't imagine why you're so interested. He shook his head. Interested? We're talking about you. I'm fascinated.
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I'm not good, he said, piercing me with eyes that absorbed all light but reflected none, but I was worse.
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It didn't escape me that he couldn't seem to stop finding reasons to touch me. Nor did I miss that I didn't want him to stop.
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Everything had come into sharp focus : his smooth words, his black, glinting eyes, his broad experience with lies, seduction, women. I'd fallen in love with the devil.
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But if the choice I have to make comes down to you or me, I choose you. I always have. All my love, Patch
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There's a disconnect between my mind and my heart, but I feel the truth. They say when people lose their vision, their hearing comes sharper. I've lost part of my memory but maybe my intuition is stronger.
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You find the wrong boy, you ask for trouble. You find the right boy, you find love.
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If I'd wanted you dead five minutes ago, you'd have died five minutes ago.
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There was nothing wrong with fire … as long as you didn’t stand too close. Something to keep in mind.
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You’re impinging on my private space,” I said, inching backward. Patch gave a barely-there smile. Impinging? This isn’t the SAT, Nora.
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We need a ride. We're stranded. We still have two legs, leftie and rightie. Mine are in the mood for exercise. They feel like a nice long walk--ARE YOU CRAZY? she shrieked. I was standing with the tip of the beach umbrella aimed at the driver's-side window. What? I said. We have to get in.
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